


wordlessly

by Tias



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, a bit of biting, and poetic gay, as aptly put by friends, it just reads really fancy, plot? in my house? nonexistent for these sorts of things, silent poetic gay it is, silent smut, tiny bit of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 07:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16782610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tias/pseuds/Tias
Summary: Fondness brings the tip of a nose to bump against its counterpart; lust brings hands to tug at clumps of hair with ferocity, sounding out impending groans. Lips threaten to depart, yet are unable to. Drawn to the act of smothering a tangible blend of aforementioned emotions, drawn to the taste of need.





	wordlessly

**Author's Note:**

> trying to come up with a summary for this is a goddamn nightmare, but this is the closest thing I'll ever get to recreating my first writing style

A single touch is enough to have Madara unwind. The string keeping his body intact unravels, strand by strand, through prudent ministrations. He sighs with such content; his skin vibrates with such eagerness.

He feels grounded, locked into place beneath Tobirama. He enjoys the temporary hearth immensely.

The fingers gliding along his skin are brushes, drawing imaginary lines comprised of praise, wandering from one point of his lover’s body to another with no path in mind. Only to explore all that it can. Over aged skin that survived the woeful song of war time and time again, bearing serrated scars and scorched skin as trophies. Lips touch, peck and graze, engraving utterances of endearment unto the very bone. 

From simple want to growing need, from admiration to love, he feels it blooming. He feels the roots disappear beneath his flesh. Words cannot begin to the describe the veils of anticipation, of joy that rest delicately over his frame. That eventually mimic a flourishing array of coloured petals and sink, to reach for his mind and plant impulses.

Those of which he cannot ignore, those of which morph his lover’s plain exhale into a wanton noise. It becomes the reason pressure adds to Tobirama’s every action.

He wants.

He wants.

He _needs_.

No longer is there a wall of shame, of embarrassment that can conceal it, that can bar it.

Tobirama watches his lover.

Unlike the other, he works at a leisurely pace and resists the waters of temptation lapping at his feet. After every kiss, a second, a third, a fourth - placed over the other or trailing off in search of something new.

He expresses initial caution, unknown to him the wild essence lurking beneath feigned innocence.

Teeth ghost along starved flesh and sink with varying forces, coaxing feathery mewls of appreciation, complying with his lover’s unspoken wishes.

Eyes hardly wander from a flushed visage, burning images well into the recesses of Tobirama’s mind. Eyes temporarily glue themselves to the rise of goosebumps, coating Madara’s skin in a flash. The curves of his lips twitch and broaden, for what a sight it is.

He learns what makes Madara transition from want to need, what makes him moan and whine, what makes him beg. What makes his body no longer work on coherency and pre-planned action, only on impulses that scream desires.

A bite is equivalent to the _snip_ of scissors and thread. A bite is what makes Madara wriggle in Tobirama’s hold. Whether he was to moan or gasp lies in the action. Softer, tender kisses brings about the former. Indents of canines and incisors brings about the latter. The skin swells with colour, either left at a mere blush or a deepening red that spreads like ink. He litters marks of affection in his exploration, tainting a pale complexion by the minute, by the second.

Fondness brings the tip of a nose to bump against its counterpart; lust brings hands to tug at clumps of hair with ferocity, sounding out impending groans. Lips threaten to depart, yet are unable to. Drawn to the act of smothering a tangible blend of aforementioned emotions, drawn to the taste of _need_.

Their night is a night of attrition. A night that tests their boundaries, their threshold in smaller and slower motions.

In time, the crown of dominance swaps and so too does their position.

Madara etches lines and patterns into Tobirama’s torso, abdomen and back by nail. Crafting a crude sketch of his untempered, evergrowing _devotion_.

They simmer, piling blocks upon blocks of restrainment until they move drastically. Each exhale is a plume of steam, rocking from side to side in their descent. Each exhale is a note imparted from an inner orchestra, often times tweaked by an abrupt end, a shallowness, a twist into a high whine.

Tobirama sinks into the mattress, splayed over sheets as the perfect specimen of a painting in the works. The artist experiments with hues of red. Streaks that widens or thins, that curves, that paints a harsh shade of love into his canvas. Consumed by the notion of _red_ and _need_ , amalgamating only through a dash of viciousness.

That which brings crimson in sight and smell; mouths crashing together in spontaneous change, angered tides to fervid fires. A nicked collarbone produces trickles of blood, forming the basis of a brief silent apology. He caresses, fingertips skimming over a cheekbone, over a jawline. He uses the remainder of his want to spell out a string of pardons, delivering kiss after kiss. Each is accepted, is requited.

His need is in full reign. The mattress dips, lowering his lover in further.

Sweat forms, gleams, dribbles. Blistering heat scales limbs and skin, stirring hairs and rousing nerves in its wake. Limbs cling and lock, fingers and toes stretching.

Trembling.

Oversensitive.

Inseparable; shards of heat gathering between bodies, dancing.

Tobirama’s spine arches to his lover’s rhythm, breath thieved from his very lungs. A hiss waits to be vocalized, to be accompanied by a fragmented moan. Skin to skin; drinking in the sight of muscles tensing, twitching. Drinking in the sight of breathtaking expressions.

Love glimmers beneath a smug countenance, love melds with a bewitching smile.

Love shines upon rolling droplets, love forms the open mouth that serenades.

Nails rake at broad shoulders, across the blades, down the spine and a mimicry is emblazoned upon the torso. Teeth grit. Slivers of pain needle in through _red_ , nigh the verge of puncturing skin if not already succeeded.

A charred mass stick to Madara’s back, taunting. Fingertips claw and reach for a strand and another, and another, and another until his hand is filled. He tugs once with urgency, forcing a slight cant of the head, evoking a shattering note of commendation. It instills sparks in his lover’s vision, black and white. Disorientating.

One mind blanks.

One mind pursues overindulgence.

Madara reaps his precious reward. Once coveting a titillating voice, now able to manipulate the very chords. The exchange of dulcet whimpers and honeyed pants paves way for exposure to inner yearning. To the calibre; revealed to a sole person deemed worthy of such delights. Muffled by the occasional reaffirming kiss, oozing cardinal adoration.

Reciprocation speaks for Tobirama, speaks for words he could only now hope to say. Fascination spurs Madara, spurs the need for his lover to succumb.

Even now, depleting strength, a battle of endurance wages. Distinct glints surface within irises.

_Contended_.

Wordless goading. Made worse when Tobirama finally manages a grin.

Chests heave and constrict; desperation confirms an imminent end. Heat surges, coalesces, blankets over ever moving physiques. It pools in the pit of their stomachs; signals blaring amongst tingling musculature.

Appendages seize and pulsate, quivering. Closeness allows enchanting cries to spill upon flesh.

Exploration at an end, they twist and twine in finality, settling for the night.


End file.
